


handle with care if only you dare

by Anonymous



Category: Ruse (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Simon,” she hissed. “Did you hear something?”(Archive)
Relationships: Emma Bishop/Simon Archard
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	handle with care if only you dare

**Author's Note:**

> lol oh god their banter how so impossible. WHATEVS.

Beneath her tight grip the heavy moth-eaten drapery shifted. Even that small noise sounded cacophonously loud in the ominous stillness of the squat little inn; Emma continued straining her ears and beyond the known rustle of fabric against carpet, wood and limbs, she picked up on something else.

"Simon," she hissed, "did you hear something?"

"The door is very securely locked," Simon Archard pointed out in a damnably calm and effortlessly modulated voice, sitting back on his heels. One of his hands rested on the bed, denting the thick coverlet invitingly. Emma's feet ached, her back was sore and despite the curtains' dubious quality the bed looked clean and warm. But she hadn't liked the calibre of the silence as they climbed the stairs, and her mind was currently too scattered to banish the anxiety with her customary discipline and mental orderliness. "Not to mention," he went on, "that I as well as you have a pistol and immediate cover at hand and will be able to respond appropriately even should they manage to vanquish that six inch thick extravaganza."

“You exaggerate,” Emma said. His lower lip gleamed, and dark hair fell over his forehead. Emma enjoyed the sight, though the line of his brow and the hard jut of his jaw were just as stern as ever.

“Barely,” he conceded. “However, should you wish to break off our current activities and instead investigate the safety of the abandoned upper floor and dubious integrity of the suspiciously-smelling innkeeper – “

“You are very reassuring, Simon,” she said exasperatedly.

He raised an eyebrow.

“No,” she said with what she considered to be remarkable composure. “I do not. Please, by all means.”

His fingers dimpled the flesh of her thighs – not forcefully, but firm, guiding her knee outward and up over his shoulder as he leaned back in. Emma’s hat was tossed on the bed and her hair was spilling around her shoulders, sticking to her cheeks in a particularly frustrating manner – this room was so old, though mostly lovely in its antiquity rather than stifling, she was a little worried she was going to rip the draperies down before they were through. But she couldn't manage to make herself let go of them for long.

And Simon was not helping with her discipline. Or, for that matter, her capacity to focus on any outside sounds, suspicious or otherwise, or even the noise of their expected company riding into the courtyard conveniently beneath their window. Simon made it very difficult to focus on anything but the slow, sure strokes of his tongue and the warm, blunt tips of his fingers, the deft pressure exactly where she liked it, spreading her open and laving sensitive, nerve-laden flesh in such a way that electricity danced up her spine. It almost felt like the heady rush of magical power, except so much more exceptionally physical, anchored in the thick pulse of blood in her throat and thighs, her clenching muscles and white-knuckled fingers, the low cries she was biting back until her lip bruised under her teeth.

Her heart, her temples, each gasping breath rasping around through her mouth, the cant of her pelvis that Simon guided and listened to when it pleased him to no longer draw out the agonizing thread of pleasure at the very pitch-perfect edge of completion.

Oh, she’d make him pay for this, she thought vengefully. If he didn’t – she’d –

Her thoughts fractured, splintered, dissolved into a white-pressed light behind her eyelids as she gave a strangled cry and came, her head thumping back against the faded wallpaper.

Something gave with a moth-eaten rip and, her knees wobbling, she slipped and keeled forward. Simon caught her, arm around her waist as he pushed up, and he even deflected the falling heap of fabric and the seriously listing rod it had hung suspended from.

“Ah,” he said. “Property damage. I will take that as a gesture of approval.”

Emma took an unsteady step back, his arm loosening around her, and sank down on the bed. She swiped her hair out of her face, looking up at him, as the last of the pins gave up the ghost and it cascaded around her shoulders. “Allow me to more fully communicate my feelings,” she said. Her fingers fixed at his waist, popped the first button and then both of them cocked their heads, hearing the clatter of carriage wheels in the yard below.

“Ah,” he said. “Our guests.”

“If the ghosts can wait,” she told him, “so can the count.”

He had no opposing argument to offer.


End file.
